


in case of emergency, im always here

by Anonymous



Category: Lab Rats (TV 2012)
Genre: Adopted Children, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Everything Hurts, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hiding Medical Issues, Humor, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Medical Inaccuracies, Past Child Abuse, Pre-Canon, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27963698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: (“No one is ever quite ready; everyone is always caught off guard. Parenthood chooses you. And you open your eyes, look at what you've got, say "Oh, my gosh," and recognize that of all the balls there ever were, this is the one you should not drop. It's not a question of choice.” — Marisa de los Santos)Don had been ready to die since he was 14. Since his father struck his mother across the face. Since he’d shot the hunting rifle on him, because he wouldn’t stand by any longer.Don had been ready to die since he was 14. When he was alone, and all he had was his inventions.He wasn’t alone, anymore, and it looked like he wasn’t ready to die.(donald davenport takes in his brothers kids. he doesn’t know what to do—not like hes got a manual or something, but everything turns out just fine.)
Relationships: Donald Davenport/Tasha Davenport, ish - Relationship
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11
Collections: Anonymous





	1. my life had just gone tipsy turvy in an instant

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Matter of Fact](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10376340) by [Duck_Life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duck_Life/pseuds/Duck_Life). 



He wasn’t stupid. He may be crazy, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew his brother was hiding something. So when he went away on another one of his shady business trips, Donald snuck in.

It was easy enough. He and his brother were both extremely vain—egomaniac was a word he’d heard most often—and it didn’t take a genius like himself to know the password to his lab was his own name.

His lab was extremely messy, a thing that set the two of them off at most and caused them to split labs. Records and papers were all half hazardly splayed out in the concrete, alongside mysterious liquid spills.

Donald shuddered. Gross. His brother always drank weird energy drinks and green smoothies.

He shook himself. That wasn’t what he was here for. He was here to snoop. _Peacefully_ , and _respectfully_ , invade his brothers personal space.

Donald spent some time rifling through files and notes, before coming up with absolutely zero.

Aside from messes on the floor and holes in the wall, there was nothing. Donald turned, scratching his head. He felt slightly guilty at the moment—he had doubted his brother. 

Donald took a step towards the door before, slipping on a banana peel or another mystery fruit, diving headfirst into the wall. He braced himself for the impact. 

Instead, he phased right through. 

Don let out a grunt, landing on concrete, before getting up. He wiped himself off, squinting at the dark room. Donald stumbled about, looking for the light switch, refusing to, probably, injure himself some more, and perhaps impale himself on a freaky invention.

He finally found it, after a few ridiculous moments of bumping into things and tripping some more. Donald frowned.

His brother never told him about this space, never at all. He looked around, taking light and careful steps further in. 

The scenery of the room was plain, white walls, white floor, white tables. Somewhat like a hospital. Douglas’s inventions lay in nearly every corner of the room, abandoned, just started or in the middle.

Donald took a few more steps in, before stepping on something. He bent down, picking up, whatever it was. 

A stuffed animal. A dog, it looked like. Don set it down on the table absentmindedly, inspecting the room for anything suspicious. This whole _situation_ was suspicious, but Donald would give his brother the benefit of the doubt. 

His arm still aches from the fall, alongside the aches from five years ago that never really left, but he pushes on, walking further. 

Don thought he’d find a special project of sorts. Something that he wouldn’t like, and Douglas thus hid away. The two of them had their fair share of secrets.

Donald would understand—after all, he’d hid far too many things. Things that still had never seen the light of day, and Donald intended it to stay that way, until the day he had his arms crossed, six feet under. 

Douglas did hide away something that he wouldn’t like, but Donald never thought it was going to be this. 

_NOVEMBER 16TH: SUBJECT A_

_REFUSES TO USE SUPER STRENGTH AGAINST B AND C. HAS A SOFT SPOT DESPITE LIMITED INTERACTION._

_PERHAPS I MUST DIVIDE THE THREE INTO TOTAL ISOLATION. WHEN FACED_ _AGAINST AN IMMINENT THREAT, SUBJECT A MAY CHOOSE B AND C OVER A CIVILLIAN._

He found a total of three other files, dating back to 1998. They were packed to the brim, filled with daily updates. 

Donald frowned. What were these about? Androids? Had he been keeping androids hidden from him? 

Why didn’t he consult him? 

“Who are you?” 

The highpitched voice causes Donald to abruptly drop the files. They spread out in masses on the table. He turns, to see a child with long, mousy brown hair.

Donald stutters over his words, “I, uh.” He spits out, lamely. He cant bring himself to speak, marvelling at what was standing in front of him.

“You aren’t very quiet. I heard you fall through the SVD.”

”SVD?”

”Stratospheric visual disrupter.” She lists off, looking at him curiously. 

“Who are you?” She asks again, “Dad didn’t tell us someone was staying here while he was away.”

Oh. _Oh_. These—she, was one of the..the robot kids. Androids. Why did he make them children? To trick people? Fool them with those eyes that looked all too real? They called Douglas, dad?

”I’m..” He trailed off, “Mr. Davenport.” She blinked at him. “Dad’s last name is Davenport.”

”That’s because they’re related, Subject B.” A voice comes out from behind them. Another android. A boy, this time. Similar brown hair. Seedy disposition.

”Donald Davenport, 28 years old, co-founder of Davenport Industries.” He looks closer, holding a frail hand to his temple, “Currently in a mild to severe state of..” he trailed off, eyes widening. “You—“ He stepped back, looking between behind himself, the first android, and Donald.

Donald recoiled in realization. He shook his head rapidly at the boy, trying to get him not to say anything. The seedy child raised a hand to his mouth, as if to stop anything from spilling out. 

It’s then that Donald takes full notice. The girl android was extremely weak. Shes thin and gaunt. It looks like shes barely keeping herself up. It’s far too realistic not to be real. 

The boy has dark, sunken eye bags and an array of tan freckles. He’s short, shorter than the first child. Donald registers it, fully. He blinks. “We,” he stops, breathing heavy, because, wow, was it acting up again. 

It had been for a while, aches and pains rejoining his list of problems, but it came back in full force now. Donald ignores it, stepping towards the children and scooping Subject C, or A, into his arms.

“Need to leave.” Donald continues. He goes to Subject B, a hand set out for her to take it.

She looks at it, back to him, then to behind her. She shakes her head. “A. He’s—he’s still—“ She stutters, pointing to further into the lab. “A.” Is what she says, clearly.

Donald takes a look at whose present—1, 2, wheres the third? 

He walks over, slowly, shaking whilst C is in his arms, before he’s presented with three long tubes. A boy, taller and older than the other two stood, eyes closed. 

Don places C down with B, pulling the tube door open. Cold air spills out from it. The tallest boy blinks, rubbing his eyes groggily. “Dad?” 

He shakes his head. “No, uh,” he gulps, “Not dad.” 

But it doesn’t matter if he’s not dad, because he pulls A from his capsule and picks up C, with B holding his hand tightly. 

Donald wasn’t an expert, but of all the things hes ever known, he knows that something was happening here that shouldn’t be.


	2. for the life of me, don’t call him dad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhh warning: mentions of abuse, death, puking, sickness.. thats it i think??? 
> 
> u’ve been warned

His heart was going, probably, a thousand beats per minute.

Alarming, yes, but it wasn’t really unexpected. Donald has been dying, for, what was it? Five years, wasn’t it?

Yes. Five years. He was 23. Six years after the company had been established in his and Douglas’s small, cramped room, and just a year after it had actually become a thing. 

At first, it wasn’t the chip, no, not at all. Completely unrelated. At first, it was the infection. It started with a cough, a sneeze. Light fever. Chills. Headache. Muscle aches.

Not much. Normal stuff. Like the flu.

Then it was stuff very _unlike_ the flu.

He could barely get up in the morning. Couldn’t eat. Puked up whatever got successfully down. He was extremely weak—Douglas found out, scolded him for being such a prick and for not telling him. When Douglas got involved, he got _involved_.

Donald got better in a month.

Well. Only because of the chip. All of it was the chip.

Douglas, nor Donald, intended for it to stay long. Just long enough to regulate his body. Help him out. Regain his health. A little strength, a little peace of mind. Easy stuff. He was barely bionic.

But you _know_ how these things go.

Although, it was nearly every bit Donald’s fault. Douglas told him to take out. And Donald did.

Until he didn’t.

Donald grew reliant on the untested piece of technology. And. He found out, in the end, that he was still dying. Slower, but nonetheless he was dying. 

Don had been ready to die since he was 14, so why not make the most of the golden opportunity. He had a bionic chip. In his spinal cord. Untested, except for him. 

He wasn’t dead, though he _was_ dying, but whatever. He was fine. The chip _made him better._

Donald kept a journal. Just small tidbits of information. Information he’d get someone to give to Douglas after he’d die. After all, the chip was Douglas’s idea. He deserved every bit of fame for it.

Donalds schematics told him he had three years. He was 23. 26 would be alright. Just enough time to build the company up, give him time to get investors, investments, and when he’d die, the journal would make its way to Douglas.

Douglas would know what to do. Know what to tweak, so, well, no one else died. He’d know. Then the chip would change the world. And Douglas would get every bit of fame. 

This time, Donald isnt jealous. He has 3 years. He’d always been sort of an ass to Douglas. This was the least he could give him. That, and a peaceful state of mind, where Donald wasn’t dying and the bionic chip was a success and Douglas was _happy_.

As his younger brother, Douglas deserved every bit of it.

That is, until he’s 28. Donald is 28, and driving past the speed limit, just _trying to get away_. Far, far away from the lab in Centium City. Donald is 28. He should be dead. But he isn’t.

He’s mapping out what to do at next; boot Douglas from Davenport Industries, buy a house, build a lab, keep the kids safe, _keep the kids safe_.

The children are tucked together in the back, holding eachother close. They are trembling, and wondering what’s happening and where they are going. 

Donald decides to buy a house in Mission Creek. Mission Creek, California, was nice enough. Peaceful town. Suburban. No suspicion. New families moved there all the time. 

He’s a _little_ —scratch that, he’s _very_ , paranoid. How can he not be? He’s planning his whole new life before his eyes, weakly checking the road for any cars he’s about to crash, or people he might accidentally run over.

Douglas is a stranger to him. Douglas, his little brother. His little brother who he wanted to protect, protect so badly, from the man who’s hitting mom in the living room.

His little brother who he shared a bunk bed with. His little brother who he knocked out, just once, because he shouldn’t have to see the scene playing out in their house—the scene that plays behind Donald’s eyes everytime his thoughts drift elsewhere.

The sun was rising. Donald checked his watch—7:14AM.

The real estate agency opened at 7. He could get there, sign a house fully paid and begin something there. The next shareholders meeting was on Sunday. It was Saturday. He had a day. A day to get his plans together, make something up and boot Douglas from the company.

His brother was a stranger to him. But he’s got no choice, because the children huddled fearfully in the back of his car have become his priority.

...

He realized, the lab he built was _very_ rough around the edges.

The children, he thought, were going to be fine. It was no nursery, just basic necessities. The capsules, tables, chairs. A couch. A washroom. 

But. He felt bad. The children, Douglas’s children, and now his, were never going to have a normal childhood. They were, essentially, doomed from the start.

Donald, nor Douglas, had a normal childhood. They had a strong mother, but she was weakless against a man called Dad. What happened goes by in slow film in front of Donald, everytime he sleeps. When he eats. When he’s working.

It’s always the same two incidents, but it’s for a reason. There’s got to be. Or his mind has been submitting him for torture for 14 years. He never went to therapy, either. Him nor Douglas. It makes him wonder. He and his brother were parked unto the same path. When did those two paths diverge?

Otherwise, Donald, in short, blames himself. He doesn’t need to. But he’s Douglas’s big brother. He owes up to the mistakes that aren’t even his. 

Donald, in the end, built a playroom. Bought the kids dolls and cars and let them watch Disney movies on tape. Gave them stuffed monkeys, let them make sock puppets and tried to give them something _normal_. Because God knows that it’s the most they’ll get.

...

”Mr. Davenport?” Donald looks up, sees nothing, before looking down. Crafty—which was a nickname he gave to the seedy boy with thin brown hair and large, big and bright hazel eyes—was looking up at him. 

“Yes?” He says, looking back to his work. He was building a neural scrambler. Thought it might make things for himself a little easier. 

“I know you’re our uncle. What happened to..” He trails off, coughing. The kid knew when things would get awkward, Donald would give him that.

“Dad.” He spits out. Don sets down his glasses and screwdriver, turning to the boy, mid grimace. It’s been nearly a week since the day, and the whole ‘family’ was still in disarray. 

When Don had booted Douglas from the company, surprisingly, his shareholders, and a _lot_ of his staff were particularly nosy about it. Donald didn’t take the time of day to explain, and it didn’t matter, because he was the owner. He could do what he wanted.

The house had been bought in full on that 7am on a Saturday, and, again, the realtor was especially nosy. Again, he didn’t give the time of day to explain. He was far too tired for that. Also, he almost went into cardiac arrest. His chip almost made his heart explode, and, well, he didn’t really want to explode.

Don resorted to taking the chip out. Just, for a few days a week. Give his ‘ol body a rest. There was no Douglas, and there was no bionic future. He might still be dying, but it didn’t matter. He had kids to raise. 

Donald didn’t know a thing about parenting, _especially_ to three children, Crafty had absolutely no filter, Breakneck talked too fast for her good—Donald always had to remind her to slow the hell down, it was a matter he’d dive into _later—_ and Heavy-duty wasn’t _too_ bright, but Donald would give him a few years. If things didn’t change, well. He’d cross that bridge when he was nearly falling off. 

Don wipes a hand across his face, hesitantly sighing. “You’re nervous.” Crafty spilled out, skittishly. When _Crafty_ was nervous, he’d spit out weird facts about who he was talking about to steer them away from his own nervousness. Donald shrugged.

“I am. That reminds me, don’t call him, y’know.” Donald said, gesturing to what he’d said before. Crafty nodded. “Why?” The kid was always too damn curious.

“Because he was the furthest thing from a dad.” The boy blinked. “What’s a real dad like?” Donald bit his lip, humming. Honestly? He didn’t know either. He didn’t really have the greatest example.

“Well. For starters. They _don’t_ hide your existence from your uncle.” Crafty tilts his head, brows furrowing. Donald was going to have to teach him what sarcasm meant.

Donald coughed, rubbing the nape of his neck awkwardly. “They let you have fun. They buy you things. They teach you stuff, like—like how to tie a tie. How to tie your shoes. How to ride your bike.” Crafty blinked again, looking at him with considerably wider eyes. 

“You do those things.” He said, blankly. Don nodded, slowly. “Yes, I do.” Crafty expanded on the topic. “You bought us toys. You let us have fun watching Beauty and the Beast. You taught us what the police were.” Donald shook his head. “Yes. I did.” He was really unsure where the conversation was going.

”Does this mean _you’re_ our new dad?” He asked. Don stared at the child. Well. He guessed that’s technically what it meant? Donald was definitely a _ways_ a way of being titled dad of the year, but he _guessed_ he was like a dad?

Don nodded again. “Sure, kid.” He ruffled Crafty’s hair. Crafty rolled his eyes. “Don’t touch my hair.” Donald snorted. “Sure, kid.” 

He guessed. He guessed he was like a dad. That was a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i made it sound like donald had covid :l


End file.
